A Flawed Perfection
by dxdevlin
Summary: Duke Devlin’s family was cursed with the gift of perfection, a curse that was out to destroy him. With the descendent of his curser right under his nose, he can destroy the curse, right? But things aren’t always what they seem...
1. Bukerye

A Flawed Perfection

**By DxDevlin**

** Disclaimer: **I own nothing the plot

** Summary: **Duke Devlin's real name is Bukerye, just like every man in his family for centuries. His family was cursed with the gift of perfection, a curse that was out to destroy him. With the descendent of their curser right under his nose, he can destroy it-, right? But things aren't always what they seem…

**Author's Note: **Don't know why I wrote this. I like it though. I made it up as I went along. If it looks boring in the beginning, keep reading. It gets more interesting. And by the way, 'Duke' is Duke Devlin, the Dungeon Dice Monster guy…remember?

**Chapter 1:**

**Bukerye**

Bukerye. That was the despicable, unfortunate name given to Duke by his all-too-loving mother. The correct pronunciation was 'Byuke-er-rye,' but that sounded no less inviting than dinner with a conceited Englishman. Duke preferred it as 'Buck-er-eye,' but where would anyone get with a kiddy and much too playful name such as that? His friends taunted and tormented him relentlessly about his cursed name, hooting like wild animals and forming rings around him. They were innocent, he knew; they were his buds, but the shameful lashing had gone deep within him, nestling a small spot in the back of his heart.

It wasn't Duke's mother's fault that he had to be stuck with such a distasteful name. It wasn't his father's fault, either. Nor his grandparents. Nor his great-grandparents, for that matter.

The fault could only be fairly placed on Bukerye Devlin, his great-great-great-grand-uncle. This was a man born with deliciously good looks. At least, that was what all the women of his time declared. His flattering hair was dark, shiny, and as smooth and slick as oil. His deep eyes were as dark and mysterious as a storm looming on an open sea. His skin could be described as velvety, if such a thing was possible. It was tanned to a crisp, almost, every inch of it.

…but details aren't necessary.

Bukerye was a god with women. They deified him; crept over him like snakes slithering on prey. Well, except that he wasn't prey. He was their god. They worshipped him. They served him. They did anything to get their thirsty hands on him. He didn't even have to talk. A nod, a flip of the tongue, and the swish of his hair were enough to lure anyone. He would mumble his 'mmmm…s' and 'ahhhhhh…s' and the ladies would mumble 'Bukerye, Buuuukeryyyyyye…,' every time glorifying his name.

But not everyone revered him. A nobleman named Lasquar, in particular. Lasquar was far more sophisticated and heaps smarter, but his looks weren't so fortunate. He was hard-core and sly, and the attention Bukerye received from the ladies was far too disgusting for him to tolerate. So Lasquar cursed this Bukerye, to put it simply.

Curses don't exist, they say.

They do, actually, just not in any describable form, whether physical or not. There is impenetrable magic in this world, and there has always been. These invisible, untouchable, inaudible forces are in the air, in the water, in our bodies. Most walk blindly through life, ignorant of them. But not everyone. Some people manage to infiltrate these forces. They train their minds to do the impossible. They are the Enlightened Masters; the ones who pick out pebbles in the air and walk on them; the ones who can curse people for eternity.

Lasquar was one of them. He put a curse on Bukerye that was so lethal and toxic, yet so magnificent and splendorous that it was almost like the gift of death.

It was the curse of perfection.

Well, for the men, at least. "Every son that you shall bring into this world shall be name Bukerye," Lasquar had whispered wickedly. Then he left. The curse was set. Every son from the time of the first Bukerye Devlin was named Bukerye. If there were brothers, they would be named Bukerye I and II. If there were girls, they would be dubbed common names by their parents. But the men were all cursed, if that's what you'd call it. They were cursed with deliciously good looks, a godlike way with women, the drive to succeed, a flawless life…

But even perfection had flaws.

With each generation of men, that one statement was realized, grasped, comprehended. The drive to succeed was intolerable. The generations of Bukeryes pushed themselves mercilessly at every chance, every opportunity; it forced them to writhe in intolerable wrath at every opportunity wasted. The deliciously good looks were soon to become bitter as the men simply became nauseous of their attractiveness. Hours of excitedly examining every pore, every hair on their bodies transformed into hours of compulsively obsessive hours of disgust. The women; they would crawl over the men like wild beasts looking for prey, except that once again, the men were gods. The women were untamable, it seemed. The Bukeryes produced children after children; the women were so crazy. The prospect of settling down soon vanished into the air, just like the Bukeryes' happiness. The family tree spread like a bushfire in the midst of damp trees, but rarely did one get married. Still, every son was named Bukerye. Every one. And every Bukerye was cursed, just like the first one.

Lasquar had been quite smart.

Actually, his first name was not Lasquar. That was his last name. His first name had been Dilan, pronounced 'dee-long,' the French way. He was their curse. Their enemy. Their vengeance.

And he was right under Duke's nose. Well, that wasn't his name, actually. It was Bukerye. But the tormenting had shattered Bukerye from the day he met his first friend, so he changed it to Duke. Duke Devlin. It sounded noble, it sounded royal, it sounded suave. It sounded perfect.

One more thing added to his perfect life.

It wasn't that bad, like all the other Bukeryes. It was a sign that the curse was wearing off. Or at least the Bukeryes were beginning to fight it. Duke didn't care about his looks as much as most of his friends. He was more laid back, letting nature take hold of his life. He went to school, he hung out with friends.

He had already invented his own game.

The curse was clearly taking control of his life, it seemed. Dungeon Dice Monsters, he had called it. He invented it and became its one master. He obsessed over it day after day, night after night. He changed colors, he added new rules. He knew that there was no such thing as 'perfect,' yet he strived to reach it. It was playing with his mind.

So the day he found out about Dilan Lasquar, his life changed. When he found out that a best friend of his was Dilan Lasquar's great-great-great-grandson, he thought he was going to have a heart attack. He did almost, actually. And he probably would have died.

But Dilan Lasquar had not given the first Bukerye the gift of luck.


	2. Irony

A Flawed Perfection

**By DxDevlin**

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but Duke Devlin and, in this chapter, Joey Wheeler

**Summary: **Duke Devlin's real name is Bukerye, just like every man in his family for centuries. His family was cursed with the gift of perfection, a curse that was out to destroy him. With the descendent of their curser right under his nose, he can destroy it, right? But things aren't always what they seem…

**Author's Note: **The 'Joey' Duke meets is Joey Wheeler. The 'Devon' is no one. I was thinking of maybe her Téa, but that would be kind of weird, right?

**Chapter 2:**

**Irony**

"Duke! What's up?" Sayce Lasker whipped around in his groovy shoes and his sagging pants. He had class, he had style, _and_ he had royal blood, considering the fact that he was the great-great-great-grandson of Dilan Lasquar.

"Just chillin', " Duke replied monotonously. He was tampering with the shades of colors of a Dungeon Dice Monster board and wasn't exactly delighted to be interrupted. Then again, he had just been told of the story of his ancient uncle Bukerye and the curse bestowed onto his family by Sayce's ancestor, so that probably was a factor in his brusqueness.

Not able to produce a further response from his friend, Sayce bent over Duke's shoulder and scrutinized the board.

"You're still doing that DMM thing? Get a life. The world is right at your hands."

There was a definite annoyance in Duke's tone when he responded. "It's DDM! Get it right."

"Gee. Sorry. What's up with you?"

Duke calmed his face. "We've known each other an awful long time, don't you think? But, uh, we never talked about where we were from, you know? So, Sayce, where's your family from?"

Sayce was wide-eyed. "Are you kidding me? What the - seriously man, what's up?"

"Nothin', man. I'm just curious. I mean, we're such great friends, but I don't even know where you're from."

"Uh, yeah. That sure puts a damper on our relationship, doesn't it? Gee, I'm from America, the Land of the Free. Happy now?"

Duke whisked around in his seat and faced Sayce. "I'm serious," he pleaded. "I need to know."

"Why?"

"Just tell me, dammit." Duke was on the brink of a temper breakdown.

"Hey, don't you go around telling me what to do, alright?"

The truth was that Duke didn't quite believe that Sayce Lasker was the descendent of Dilan Lasquar. True, they nearly had identical last names, and Sayce constantly boasted about his 'royal blood.' But other than that (and the fact that Duke's father had claimed that Sayce was in fact his descendent), Duke didn't have any evidence. So he had to discover the truth. Without, of course, angering Sayce in any way that would hinder their friendship.

But already he had failed. He forced himself to give in and reconcile with Sayce. He apologized with a bowed head, but it was sincere. They dropped the matter.

"So Duke, I know we're not arguing anymore, but seriously, what was that whole thing about? I want to know, ok?"

Duke avoided Sayce's eyes. "Nothing. It was just…some random thing going on in my head."

So they dropped that matter too. And they went to school. Which was equivalent to a heavenly hell for Duke. For one thing, the girls clobbered over him, even the shy ones. They flirted with him in the halls, in the classes, in the cafeteria. Girls he didn't know, even. Girls who were ugly. Girls who were loners. Girls who lived in their own crazy worlds.

In short, everyone.

Duke didn't even have a girlfriend. He didn't want one. Even if he did, the girls would nevertheless still clobber over him like hawks seeking rats. Except that, once again, he wasn't prey; he was their god. He walked through the halls, looking neither left nor right. But the girls were impossible to ignore. He would hear things like,

"Hey Duke!"

"You look nice, Duke!"

"Cool hair, Duke!"

(Someone's long and (one could say) cute sigh…)

"How's it going, Duke?"

"Dukie!"

etc. etc. etc. etc. (In short, etc. for eternity.)

There was one girl he'd been keeping his eyes on, actually. She was the only girl who he ever bothered to look at. She had natural beauty; natural grace. She didn't dress up in snobbish clothes and pound her face with makeup. She didn't dye her hair obscene colors or walk around with an I'm-too-good-for-you tone. She never randomly shouted his name or flirted with him. She glanced at him, but she didn't slobber. There was something he saw in her that filled his guts with warmth. There was in her a force that he had been unknowingly seeking throughout his life. He didn't know what it was, but he knew it was there.

"Hey." Before he even realized it, he was standing in front of her, _talking to her._

"Hey," she replied. Her voice was gentle and a little held back, but he rushed in.

"I'm Duke." He smiled briefly.

"Yeah, I know. I'm Devon."

"That's a nice name. Almost like my last name."

He blew it. What could she say after a sentence like that? But suddenly, another guy swooped in. He had wild, blond hair poofed up on top of his head. He looked oddly familiar…

"Joey, isn't it?" Duke asked, remembering. Inside, he spat in disgust that a brat just cut him off from Devon.

Joey did in fact spit. Well, no spit came out, but the sound was there.

"What the hell are you doin' here, Devlin?" he asked raucously.

Duke took this as a challenge. "You're that little brat I taught a lesson to, aren't ya?"

"Hey, no one taught a lesson to anyone. You better run away and stay away from my girl before I beat some sense into you, you got it?"

Duke gaped. "Your girl? _Your_ girl? Why the hell would anyone want to _touch_ you?"

"Break it up, guys!" Devon quickly jumped in between them. Duke felt his heart race in excitement.

"Let's go, Joey." She took one last glance at Duke. It was an obvious look of disgust. She walked away, hand in hand with her _boyfriend_. Duke's expression sunk. He had found her: the type of girl he'd always longed for, the type of girl who didn't care so much for looks as for personality. Every girl wanted him, yet the only girl _he_ wanted just said goodbye to him. A curse of perfection? More like a curse of the worst. He walked down the hall, pitying himself. For all it was worth, he hated this curse; this heavenly bliss. Who wouldn't want to be perfect? It was the dream life; yet he despised it.

And yet he loved it. That was the truth, yet it wasn't. What was life turning into? A life filled with the battle of opposites? A life where he didn't even understand his feelings? A life of figuring out what he liked and hated; what he wanted and what he lacked?

What was this?

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Thanks for reading! Anything suggestions? Remember to review!

-DxDevlin


	3. Secrets

A Flawed Perfection

**By DxDevlin**

** Disclaimer: **I own nothing but Duke Devlin

** Summary: **Duke Devlin's real name is Bukerye, just like every man in his family for centuries. His family was cursed with the gift of perfection, a curse that was out to destroy him. With the descendent of their curser right under his nose, he can destroy it, right? But things aren't always what they seem…

** Chapter 3:**

**Irony**

Perfection. That's what Duke needed. And had. Yet whenever he was handed back a graded exam, quiz, or even a worksheet, he was always tense with anxiety. The thumping of his heart was audible to his ears; his knuckles twitched restlessly on the desk. His guts squirmed and squealed with impatience. Every millisecond seemed perpetual.

"Nervous, Mr. Devlin?" The weary-eyed old man with glasses hanging on his nose smiled faintly. He handed Duke a 2-page test. In big, fat, red letters was the number '100'. Of course; as always. Duke could not even remember ever not getting anything below perfect. Yet it was sickening, in a way. Waiting for his work to be given back and already knowing that it would be perfect was a nauseating experience. It seemed as if he was always waiting for that imperfect score. If he got below 100, a burden would seemingly be lifted off his shoulders, yet it would be a horrible experience.

"A hundred again?" a tiny whisper from behind him asked.

"Yeah" was the answer, along with a nod. But Duke didn't even bother to look back. It was another one of those girls.

"Class, I'm going to give you your grade sheets. They won't include any extra credit work, but they're the grades that will go onto your interims."

Duke winced. He loathed grade sheets more than anything. The very first one he had ever received was in 5th grade, and he had smirked in arrogant pride as he paraded his straight 100's around the room. As his pile of grade sheets began to pile up, however, the straight lines of repetitive 1's and 0's began to trigger a feeling within him that he couldn't quite explain. It wasn't a good 'couldn't quite explain,' though.

"Come up and get yours when I call your name… Miguel, Clayton, Vanessa, Dylan, Duke…"

Duke knew exactly how many grades there were going to be and what each grade was going to be. His heart nevertheless thumped. How could he feel at all uneasy, he thought. It was like he was waiting in line to find out what 2 plus 2 was and still feeling jittery that one way or another it could end up being 3.

He picked up the rectangular sheet of paper. It was as he expected: 15 grades; 3 tests, 4 quizzes, 8 worksheets. Every single line was in perfect unison; straight 1's and two columns of straight 0's. He sighed in relief and in agony. He crumpled up the sheet of paper as the bell rang and sullenly walked out of the room.

"Duke!" Sayce stuck out his hand in midair. Duke high-fived him wearily. Suddenly, he began to notice Sayce's other hand. It was fiddling with something in the air. Except that there was nothing in the air but the air itself.

"The Enlightened Masters…" Duke thought to himself. Yet some vigor within him drove him to say the two words out loud. Perhaps it was the fact that he was feeling the ill effects of his perfection. Perhaps it was the fact that these effects were supposedly created by Sayce's granduncle. It didn't matter why though, because Sayce had heard it.

"What'd you say?" Sayce asked, now facing Duke with a wrathful face.

"Nothin'. Nothin', man."

"No, no, don't you nothin' me. Tell me, what'd you say?" Sayce was furious now.

"Nothin'. Serious, nothin'."

Then Sayce shoved Duke squarely in the chest. Duke was caught off balance and staggered backwards for a second, but only for a second. In another instant he was smiling back a challenge. He shoved Sayce back, his fingertips bouncing off Sayce's chest.

In another instant, the two boys were fighting. It began with Sayce's cuff to Duke's face with the outside of his fist. It wasn't meant to be a punch, just a scratch. But it didn't matter. In another instant, the two were on the floor, clawing away at each other's faces like beasts. Duke had closed his eyes; despite his rage, he had enough sense to know that he didn't want his eyeballs torn out. He just kicked and scratched and thumped and clawed.

…but details aren't necessary.

The students hovering around them now chanted, "Fight! Fight! Fight!" School administrators huffed and puffed as they were forced to disrupt their work to break up the fight. In another instant, the two boys were sent home, suspended for a week. It was a private school and strict discipline was required, so involvement in even the tiniest fights resulted in at least a week's detention.

"What the f –, aww, whatever, forget it, man…" Duke's voice trailed off. They were walking back home because their parents had been contacted but refused to leave work, so the two were allowed to go home unsupervised.

"Yeah, forget it. I mean, let's just forget about this whole thing…you know?" Sayce only stared at the ground. He had not even glanced at Duke since the fight.

"How?" was Duke's reply.

Sayce sighed. "Exactly," was his reply.

"Awww… I don't get it thought…what was so terrible about what I said?"

Sayce sighed again and mumbled a few 'geez's'. "Geez, I dunno. I mean, yeah, I do know. But I don't why I got so angry. It's just…I mean….WHY'D YOU EVEN SAY THAT, ANYWAY?"

Duke halted in surprise. Sayce had practically muttered the first part of the sentence and was suddenly bawling.

"Calm down," Duke whispered between gritted teeth. "The whole town's gonna hear you." He paused and decided to let it go. "Anyway, my parents talked about these people called 'Enlightened Masters' last night, and what you were doing with your hands made me think of it. That's all."

It was Sayce who halted this time. "Oh," he replied. "Right. Whatever."

Duke had seen it all, in the halt, the look of embarrassment, and the 'whatever.'

"So you're one of them, aren't you?" Duke asked. He was staring intently into Sayce's eyes.

"Whatever, man." Sayce broke into a run. Duke yelled 'wait up!' a few times and finally caught up. Sayce was ignoring him, just running. Sprinting, actually. Duke stopped stubbornly. He was sick of putting it off.

"Sayce!" he yelled furiously. "You cursed me! That Dilan Lasquar guy, he put some crazy curse on me that's ruining my life, and you're off running, afraid of some little thing that I don't know! Why don't you face me like a man? Can't tell secrets, can you? Well screw you! You know that? Screw you!"

Only then did Sayce stop.

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_ Oooo….cliffhanger, huh? Well sorry if it is…I need some inspiration next chapter so I can start somewhere. _


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